She
by Kates Master's Sister
Summary: Modern. One shot. FW POV. She looked ill. He wanted to be glad.


She looked old. And tired. Thinner than when he had last seen her. Her face was drawn. Her eyes had lost something of a sparkle, and her movements were slow and calculated. There were lines on her face, and something told him they weren't caused by laughter. She looked almost ill. She looked almost lifeless.

He wanted to be glad. He wanted to rub it in her face, how successful he was, how much he had made of himself while she had wasted away at home, running around after a family who obviously didn't give one about her own personal happiness. He wanted to show her how much of a mistake she'd made in not going with him, how much of a mistake she had made in changing her mind. He wanted to hurt her the way she had hurt him.

"But most of all, I want a woman who sticks to her guns, who knows what she wants and isn't prepared to have anyone come and tell her different."

He chose his words carefully, wanting to give them the full weight they deserved. These were the words he had waited too many years to say. He wanted her face to show something, he wanted some reaction. Instead, she had just studied her plate, with a meek acceptance. He wanted her to speak up, to argue her case, or even to just flee the room. But of course, she didn't. Had he looked harder, he would have seen the way her knuckles went white as she griped her knife and fork too tight, and how her cheeks paled even further, should that be even possible. Had he thought he would have remembered how she hid her feelings, he would have admitted to himself that he had forgotten how to read her. As it was, he was angry and hurt and wanted her to hurt too.

He made himself angry. He regularly found his eyes resting on her back, her arm, her shoulder. It made him even angrier that she was totally unaware of him. How could she, who had been so weak, ignore him so easily now? He wanted her to be going through the same torture he was. He wanted his presence to ignite a fire in her belly, like hers did in his.

Thankfully, she spent most of her time with her nephews. He had never seen her with children before. It pulled at something in his heart. The more he saw of her, the more he started to realise how much he missed her. There had once been a time when he'd been able to tell whether she had washed her hair that morning. He had known that the bruise on her shin came from her bedside table which she bumped into every night, after turning out the lights, because she'd never got round to buying a bedside lamp. He knew, by the way she ate lunch, how much she had, or hadn't eaten for breakfast that morning. He'd even known, better than she did, when her period was due.

She had been able to tell when he last shaved. She could tell when he was being productive by the amount of sugar he had in his tea. She knew that he'd spent the night composing when he wore odd socks. When he was irritated, his little finger on his right hand twitched. When he was laughing at her, the corner of his mouth curled up. When he was flirting with her, he lowered his voice and ran a finger over the back of her hand. When he was angry, he remained perfectly still, before leaving the room coolly, and without looking back.

They could, should they wish, finish each others sentences. Someone once compared Anne to a moon, orbiting him, her planet. But if she was orbiting him, he was orbiting her too, dancing some strange, twirling, space age dance. They knew each other so closely, were so in tune with each other, it was hard to comprehend how they'd live without each other.

He had left. Done the travelling they'd agreed to do together, and made sure he bloody well had a good time, with a different girl in every town. Then he finally got his first play produced. In a tiny, back stream theatre in America, admittedly, but it was a start. From there, he forced things to grow. He was young, and charming, and, one producer muttered to another, had one hell of an axe to grind. He was persistent. He was argumentative. He was determined.

She always knew he would do well. She had seen first hand his talent. They hailed him as the Sondheim of his generation, but Anne saw him as something more. She saw him as something new. He wasn't the new Sondheim, he was simply Wentworth.

He couldn't help himself asking Lou Musgrove about her. He was unwillingly hungry to learn more about her and the life she had been leading. When you have been that intimate with someone, known them better than you've known your self, known them as if they were a part of your self, seeing them as a separate person is a strange experience. You have had no contact with them, not a word. It is as if they never existed in your life at all, as if they never existed in this world at all, yet here she is, living her life. And he needs to know about it.

She hates him. It's the conclusion he comes to one morning. Later that day, he changes his mind. She no longer has any feelings for him. That, in a way, is worse. His feelings for her are so strong, and here she is, giving nothing in return. But then, as she did all those years ago, she broke the opinion he had of her into ten million little pieces. On that dreadful night, after Lou's fall, when they drove back to the Musgroves house together, he stopped her getting out the car, putting his hand on her arm. She had been so together, so good, especially with Jim. A little voice in the darkest corner of his mind told him it was almost as if she understood what it was like to loose the love of your life…he had to apologise. To explain himself. To…say something. To somehow acknowledge their past.

"Anne…" He started, and she looked at him, surprised. They'd hardly spoken to each other, both so aware of Harriet and Mary in the back seat. He was as surprised as she was at his hand on her arm. He noticed something on her finger. A simple twisted piece of silver, in the shape, he knew, of a treble clef. He reached out with his other hand to get a closer look. His eyes met hers in shock. She still wore it. How had he never noticed? In the time it took for all this information to compute, the girls in the back woke, Mary with a snort, Harriet with a groan. She moved her arm quickly and opened the car door. "I should go in and see them…"

"No," He said, "No, I'll go." And leapt out before she had a chance to stop him. He needed to be away from her. He needed time to think. So she still wore his ring. Big deal. It was just a ring. But she had always been so particular about the jewellery she wore. "I'll only wear happy memories," She'd said with a smile, when she'd explained it to him. Did that mean…was he…No. He didn't want to know even if he was. What right did she have to waltz back into his life and casually rip his hearts to shreds, again? He stopped just short of the Musgroves front door. He could turn round now, take her up in his arms, carry her off into the moonlight…and then destroy her the way she destroyed him.

But, no. He couldn't. She once meant so much, for old times sake he couldn't do that. Lay her to rest, he told himself as he knocked on the door. Closure, Sophie had said. Closure. So she still wore his ring, it was for the sake of what they'd had.

Once, we were happy, he thought later, as he passed the room she was sleeping in. Once, we had a future together. We can't be friends, but we can share friends. You're a good person, Anne Elliott, he thought, thinking of the way she had adopted Jim, the way she had looked after Lou. I'm sorry I wasn't enough for you. I'm sorry I hated you. Now it's time to move on.

He tried, he really did. He left early the next morning, back to New York, without even stopping to say goodbye. If he was going to get on with his life, he needed to be away from her. That was it. Frederick Wentworth was destined for great things, and he was going to achieve them, and more.

Except…except. She haunted him. She was everywhere with him. It was worst this time than before, because now, for some reason, he had hope, and it could damage a man far more than hate. He had hope that she still thought of him. He had hope that she still wanted him. He had hope that she still loved him. And that tiny ounce of hope, the possibility of that window of opportunity, of chance, prevented him from doing anything without thinking of her. What if she had been just as lonely as he had without her? If he was going to achieve great things and more, he wanted her by his side. He wanted her to laugh at him when lost his lucky pencil. He wanted her to hold his hand on opening nights. He wanted her to suggest burning the bad reviews in the papers the next morning. He wanted her.

So he went back, against his better judgement, but it was something he had obeyed too much in the past. Listening to his better judgement had made him miserable. Now he was going to ignore it and be happy. Maybe. He hoped. He went on the pretext of developing new ideas with Jim, with whom Lou Musgrove had more or less installed herself, and writing something for Robbie, who had made his dissatisfaction with the above arrangement more than clear. If these two men thought he had other reasons for a visit, they would likely think it to be to play the role of peacemaker between them.

She had found someone else.

He heard a rumour, and then he was witness to it. It was an accident. He was walking down a street, and saw her in a café, smiling at the man across the table from her. He could have walked away and never looked back. He could have burst in and demanded to know who he was. Instead, he watched them for moment or two, and then his phone rang. When he looked back, the couple had gone. He wasn't sure how he felt. If she was happy with him, this new man, then he was happy she was happy. But…he wasn't ready to give her up. He wasn't ready to quit.

In the end, he decided to bide his time. If he knew Anne, and he had done, she wouldn't be showing her true feelings. She could hate the man sitting opposite her, and he'd never know. She could have been sitting there imagining herself slowly dissecting his smirking face, and not a flicker of it would show on her own. Of course, there was always the possibility she was happy, and she did enjoy his company and in the lonely, doubtful corners of his mind, these thoughts gathered momentum. She had laughed, he was sure he had seen her laugh properly, genuinely, at something the man had said. He hadn't seen her laugh like that since before…

It was officially and completely over for them. They had no future. There would be no hand to hold on opening nights, no one to suggest burning the bad reviews the next morning, no one to sit up with till three in the morning discussing nonsense. There would be no laughter.

He couldn't concentrate when she was in the room. He couldn't get enough of her. He missed her, more than before because she was so close. He could hear her speaking, see her movements, feel her brush past him, smell her. She smelt, he realised, of home. The home he wanted.

"Women love forever. Even when there isn't a chance in hell of him ever coming back, they still love. I don't think they, we, ever let go. Men are able to move on completely, while women only seem to move on. Inside, we still hold on."

He struck a discord on the piano without realising. He muttered an apology. He wanted to turn round and confront her. Robbie was arguing the case for men, but doing so weakly. Robbie hadn't heard the honestly behind her words, their true meaning. He wanted to tell her everything, but he couldn't. Not here, in front of all these people. No, he thought, no, he couldn't do it in front of her. He was too proud, and too scared of rejection. But his hope was soaring. Picking up his lucky pencil, he started scribbling on the page in front of him. He didn't even think about what he was writing.

_I need to speak to you__. I love you. I never stopped loving you, much as I wanted to. I've been cruel and resentful, but I've just ended up hating myself. You told Rob that men can move on. They can't. Or, I can't. I'm doing this all wrong. What I'm trying to say is that I'm yours. Forever, if you'll have me. It's killing me, seeing you, not knowing, but hoping, always hoping. Tell me I'm not too late. Please. Just a look. A smile. Anything. I love you. _

Between finishing it, and leaving the room with Robbie, he changed his mind a million times. And then he changed it again. Seconds after exiting the room, he marched back in, and met her eyes. She had wondered over to the piano, and he placed the roughly folded piece of paper on the keys in front of her, while reaching for his house keys.

He walked without knowing where he was going. He pushed Robbie off back to his wife. He felt a strange sense of calm. Now, it was out of his hands. There was nothing he could do. She would either come…or she wouldn't.

He felt, rather than heard, her call his name. The wind was whipping her hair across her face, her cheeks were flushed. He couldn't move. She ran towards him, coming to stop mere feet away.

"I, er, got your letter." She said, not looking at him. He didn't trust himself to try and read her. But she was here. That had to mean something. He found himself closing the distance between them. "And I came after you to tell you that I love you. Of course I love you. I always have lov…" She trailed off as he hooked a finger under her chin, and raised her face to look at him. Her round, worried eyes met him.

"God, we're stupid." He said, and kissed her. Their arms wound their way around each other. The kiss turned into a hug and he swung her round. They were both laughing, out of relief and out of love.

"I love you." She repeated, with more emphasis than he had ever heard her use. Her feet found the ground again.

He let out another shaky laugh, holding her tight, thanking all the gods he didn't believe in. "Words don't even begin to cover it. They never could."

She pulled back to look at him.

"Can I try?" She asked. He waited. "I'm sorry." He looked at the floor. "You're right. That doesn't even begin to cover it." She sighed and ran a hand through her hair.

"It wasn't just you…" He absentmindedly smoothed down her hair. "I never…I could've…" He was speaking more to himself. "If I'd known…"

She put her hands on his chest, drawing his eyes to meet hers. "If _I_'d known. But it doesn't matter now."

"If I'd've come to you though, anytime after I'd left, would you have…" He let it trail off.

"Would I?" Her voice said it all.

"Oh God!" He said, shocked. "I thought about it, I really did."

"Oh Fred." She snuggled into him. "We're together now. That's what matters."

There was one, last thing weighing on his mind. "What about your godmother?"

There was a pause. "It's my life." She said, at last.

And he was glad.


End file.
